


Breakfast At Tiffany's

by mydogwatson



Series: Postcard Tales II [24]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash, alternate first meeting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-23 01:06:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7460634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson wants to be a writer.  But he needs Life Experience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breakfast At Tiffany's

**Author's Note:**

> I feel as if I should apologise, because I had far too much fun writing this. If you have some fun reading it, that will be extra nice.

It was the thing to do, right? 

Move to London. Write a great novel. Find fame and fortune. Maybe love. Or at least a good flat. John had dreamed of a life like that when he was in school. Postponed it for uni and then for medical school, because that was what his family expected him to do. John tried to think of it all as Life Experience, so that when he actually did start writing, he would have lots to say.

Sadly, the dream had not anticipated military service [med school was expensive] or war. Or a bullet smashing into him.

So here he was, in London at last. Not quite as he had imagined it would be, of course. The fantasy never included a hand that shook or the need to use a cane because a phantom injury. 

Life Experience.

His shrink had told him to write a blog. He tried, really, but nothing ever happened to him, so what was he supposed to write about? Who wanted to read about sand and blood and screaming nightmares?

Anyway. There was no fame, no fortune. No love. But at least he’d found a flat. A bit damp, yeah, but the landlady was a love, who brought him freshly baked ginger biscuits the day he moved in. She apologised for the damp and showed him how to operate the dehumidifier.

He made himself a cuppa and sat down with the biscuits. The window looked out at the feet of pedestrians passing by and John doubted if the view was going to prove very inspiring. Not that it mattered. What he needed to do was find some kind of job. Not a surgical position, of course. Probably in a small practise someplace close.

He could hand out antibiotics and give injections.

Briefly, he wondered if he could stick his head into the small gas over instead.

*

Over the next few days, John went on a couple of job interviews, but nothing had come of them yet. Otherwise, he mostly just sat in his damp flat. Mrs Hudson always greeted him cheerfully and usually apologised for the frequent sound of someone thundering up and down the stairs to the other flat, 221B. She also apologised on the day a pungent odour of…something burning filled the building. “That Sherlock,” she said, shaking her head and sounding rather fonder than he thought the situation called for.

As for ‘that Sherlock’ himself, John finally met him the next day as he returned from the market. Sherlock was hurrying down the stairs, as usual, wrapping a scarf around his neck and shouting to Mrs Hudson that he might want tea later.

“Not your housekeeper, dear,” she called back.

John pressed himself and his damned cane against the wall so the man, who was really very tall, could get by.

Surprisingly, instead, Sherlock came to a sudden stop. “You must be John Watson,” he said.

John nodded. “No one else wants the job,” he joked, but there was only a blank stare in return.

“Sherlock Holmes, call me Sherlock.”

“Okay.”

Two silver-green eyes slid over him. “Iraq or Afghanistan?”

“Afghanistan, but how did you---”

“Hudders tells me you’re a doctor.”

He only nodded.

“Any good?”

“Very,” he said firmly. It was one of the few truths in his life these days.

“Well, must be off,” Sherlock said cheerfully. “Dead body to examine.”

Before John could respond to that [although what possible response could be made escaped him completely], the other man was gone.

*

Well, the whole encounter made for an amusing anecdote on his so-called blog anyway. That would make the therapist happy. Then John went to meet an old army mate for a pint. He really wasn’t in the mood to be sociable, but Bill had been a good friend, so John didn’t like to let him down.

It was not all that late when he returned to the flat, but he came in quietly just the same, in case Mrs Hudson was sleeping. John stripped off his jeans and jumper, made a quick stop in the tiny loo for a pee and to brush away the taste of cheap lager and then he was ready for bed.

Except that there was already someone in his bed.

John stopped and stared. His upstairs neighbour was under the duvet.

“Excuse me?” John said. Was the man drunk? Or had one of his ‘experiments’ as Mrs Hudson called them damaged his brain?

Holmes [or Sherlock] rolled over and looked at him. “You’re home, finally. Good.”

Admittedly, it was nice to be welcomed by a human voice instead of just being greeted by the hum of the dehumidifier, but still… “Why are you in my flat?” Start small, John figured, and then work up to the question of why the lanky, curly-haired git was in his bed. Wearing some posh dressing gown over tatty pyjamas.

“I was waiting for you, of course.” Sherlock sounded rather irritated at the question. “It was getting late and I wanted to think.”

“So you got into my bed?”

“You don’t mind, do you?”

John thought it was ridiculous that he was feeling a bit guilty about minding. If he did mind.

“You look cold.” Sherlock pulled back the duvet. “Get in. I need to talk to you.”

He probably should have refused. Or at the very least hesitated. But he _was_ cold. And it was his bed. So he got in and very carefully arranged himself so they were not touching. Under the duvet, it was very warm.

“Are we going to talk about why you are in my bed?” John asked.

“Boring.”

To be perfectly honest, John thought that there was probably nothing about being in bed with Sherlock Holmes that qualified as ‘boring’. “What, then?”

“The case, of course.”

“Case of what?” Considering some of the smells and noises that came from the flat upstairs, John was afraid to contemplate what Sherlock might have up there.

The look he received was scathing. “Not a case _of_ anything, John. A case of murder.”

That was probably not an improvement. John had never before been in bed with someone talking about murder. Idly, he wondered if there might be a blog post in this. Leaving out the part about being in bed with his neighbour, of course.

The tale that Sherlock wove for him had to do with a missing heiress, marital strife, millions of pounds in shady investments, a dog, and something called the Melbury Emerald. Frankly, none of it made much sense to John at all, but he didn’t mind. Apparently, there was a body that he thought John ought to have a look at, because someone named Anderson was an idiot and someone else named Molly didn’t mind if Sherlock brought him in.

But first there needed to be a stakeout because that Melbury Emerald was about to change hands.

All of which, he supposed, explained why [after a couple hours of surprisingly good sleep in that warm bed, while Sherlock muttered and tapped away on his phone] John found himself standing on Old Bond Street. It almost seemed normal that he was eating a croissant and drinking lukewarm tea from a paper cup while they stared into Tiffany’s.

Life Experience, John thought.

He tried not to smile, because it was a stakeout and that was serious, right?

But suddenly Sherlock grinned at him and John giggled just a little.

Just then, the jewel thief took off running across Old Bond Street. “Come on, John!” Sherlock shouted, giving chase, dodging the traffic, albeit just barely.

And John went racing after Sherlock Holmes, apologising to those he bumped into, not even noticing that his cane was still leaning against the jewellery store window.

**Author's Note:**

> Title From: Breakfast At Tiffany's by Truman Capote


End file.
